


I Close My Eyes, and All I See is Snow

by meisie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Atmospherics, Canon Divergent, Castle Black, Dragonstone, Dream Sex, Dream Sharing, Dreamfic, F/M, I mean who wouldn't want dreams like this, Introspection, Mereen, POV Daenerys, POV Jon, Special lie down, logic what logic, lovely smut, season 6, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-05-31 10:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15117530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meisie/pseuds/meisie
Summary: After saying goodbye to her lover in Mereen prior to leaving for Westeros, Daenerys has a peculiarly vivid dream. Later at Dragonstone when she receives a certain visitor, the dream starts to return to her.At Castle Black, Jon receives a similar visitation in the night, and is confused by the mysterious moonglow maiden in his bed. Later at Dragonstone, a chance glimpse of the queen with her hair down brings it all rushing back inconveniently.





	1. Mereen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allegre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegre/gifts).



__

 

_A/N: So I got an idea for a waking dream fic. My back is playing up at the moment and I can’t slave over my laptop producing ten thousand words for Up Against the Wall on orders from my physiotherapist, so I wrote a restrained thing this weekend, I hope you like it, feedback much appreciated. It’s standalone, but not really._

_Beautiful board provided by **Justwanderingneverlost** (I should really start paying her). _

He played his signature trick again as she was preparing to retire for the night, slipping past the guards and appearing in her chamber uninvited, begging on bended knee for her to relent and let him come with her, and take the bitter chalice of elevation to a position of responsibility from his cynical lips.

He always reminded her of a prowling big cat of the Great Grass Sea, claws sheathed but untameable, answering to no one and nothing. Appealing, intriguing, but hard to love, and she hadn’t. Lust and amusement had cooled to ashes in her mouth, acrid and unpalatable, so she ignored the hurt in his narrow blue eyes and told him to go. ‘Leave us,’ she said dully, turning her back, vulnerable in her thin silk robe but with a spine tempered with steel, and finally, he went.

She drunk two glasses of the strong, cloying firewine to settle her churning thoughts, standing on the terrace, letting the warm sea breeze of the Bay of Dragons caress her nearly bare skin for the last time. She would not be sad to see the last of this opulent, labyrinthine, very cruel city, but no doubt she would miss the sunshine. She had never felt the breath of true winter, but trying to conjure it to prepare herself sent a shiver over her skin like a march of ants.

Sleep was starting to take her down, a heaviness in her limbs, her mind going mazy and groggy, emptying of preparations, hopes and fears and regrets. She retreated inside, shedding her robe, blowing out the copper and glass lamps in her wake, the wide bed of inviting cotton sheets and a thin quilt for the night chill swallowing up her small figure. She submerged into twilight, not yet sucked further into the black, her limbs going slack but her mind floating like a fallen blossom through the purple sky.

She swam under the surface for an age, and when she emerged with a gasp of breaching air she was surrounded by velvety darkness, the lamps blown out, arms and legs strangely leaden, pinned down by the covers, which no longer ghosted over her skin but lay heavy. And there was a presence in her bed, the envelope of hard muscle overlain by cool skin slowly taking form behind her, the scent of musk and worn leather and pine needles, the crunch of ice ground to powder beneath her boots.  

She waited for panic to flood her veins and send her heart pattering at the intruder, but she was drowsy and relaxed, the man’s arm encircling her, the cradle of narrow hips cupping her bottom perfectly, the mass of his groin solid and warm against her cleft. She reached backwards with an exploratory hand, and found a smooth flank, a rounded buttock, hard thighs dusted with coarse hair. A different shape of man under her palm, a tickle of springy hair against her neck. Long locks, with the texture of coarse silk thread.

Her eyelids were not cooperating along with her limbs, or her sense of self preservation. She struggled to speak, her tongue thick and clumsy like she had drunk of the poppy. ‘Ssh love,’ a voice husked at her through the dark and confusion. ‘You have a long day tomorrow, a long journey ahead. Rest and let me hold you.’ His voice was low and rough, like the purr of an animal being scratched luxuriously by a fire, but she didn’t think of a cat, she thought of a wolf, white fur under her fingertips, a predator at peace.

‘You’re very familiar for a man who has stolen into my bed,’ she managed to reply. ‘I could have you killed where you lie, reckless stranger.’ Despite her defiant whisper, still she did not leap to full awareness and make her escape.

Lips nosed at a spot beneath her ear, they were firm and full, the texture of a ripe cherry before the first bite through the flesh, the itch of whiskers and the gravelly amusement in his voice making her twitch. ‘This isn’t your bed, it’s _our_ bed. Open your eyes and look.’

They were difficult to open, and when she finally cracked them she did not see it, the wide chamber of golden stone and marble tiles, the copper and brass ornaments and carved ebony screens, but a shadowy chamber of dense black stone hung with tapestries, the bed looming around her with curtains of swagged red velvet. There were furs above her, a mountain of them, black and grey and lusciously thick beneath her wandering hands.

The air was as cold as a tomb, she heard a hiss and slap against the wide windows, swirling white flakes like a host of frail moths drawn to a flame. Beneath the bed, through the floor, the foundations of the earth were shook by the roar and drag of a towering sea. She tried to turn her head to see him, the stranger that held her with such familiarity, but she could not make out his features, only a study of planes and shadows, white and black, dense raven hair a cloud around the indistinct face.

She tried to resist the intoxication of the spell, struggling a little in his grasp, but a calloused palm gentled her, smoothing over her breasts and belly, which was as round as a melon under the scarred hand, full with the child she would never have. Unshed tears were a dam of pain behind her eyes, but they did not burst. She rarely let them, even in the bitter watch of a sleepless night.  ‘Easy my love, I have you, you are safe with me.’

‘I don’t need a man to protect me,’ she reminded herself and him, and he chuckled, a lovely vibration against her ear.

‘That you don’t, but you will want me nonetheless, when you see me.’

A spell, a dream, a vision, whatever it was, it wasn’t real. She was not tethered to the earth but still wandering in that purple twilight, and finally, she surrendered to it, sinking back into the stranger’s embrace with a sigh, the croon of his voice, oddly accented, the very pleasant sense of his lean, muscled body framing her, the way he was touching her, gentle but confident.

She parted her thighs without thinking on it, letting him cup her bare mound, a thumb tracing the slit beneath the strip of hair and delving inside. She was wet for him, whoever he was, her body knew him well, even if she did not. She felt him tense behind her as her slick heat enclosed his delving fingers, a hitch of breath, a slumbering cock springing to life, a thick length pressed against her bottom and released as he touched her expertly. He was no intruder, this shadow lover, he held her key.

She mewled and curled her toes, hooking her foot over a hairy calf to open herself to it. She had precious little pleasure lately, she may as well take it where she found it, no matter that she was running mad, lost in a maze of sweet sorcery she might never escape. His face was buried in her neck, hidden by her hair, nipping a mouthful of skin. ‘You’re as slick as honey, love, I have to taste you.’

She thought it was her chance to glimpse his face and break the dream spell, jerk upright in her lonely bed and find herself earthbound again, but he moved too quickly, positioning her on her back and disappearing beneath the furs, her thighs spread by an insistent grasp, his hair dragging across her skin and twisted in her hands.

He held her open, splitting her welling flesh wide, utterly bold and ruinous, his tongue slithering to map the shape of her, delicate at first, then hungered, pulling at the skin around her nub to expose it to the seal of his bristly mouth, then toying with it in slow sweeps and little bites. She dripped with her arousal, writhed and cried with it, trying to escape, trying to urge more of it.

He took her like a ravenous man after fasting for days in the desert, her nectar the only sustenance he needed. The strange reality escaped her, there was only his lips and tongue and teeth, his satisfied grunts and groans, the buzz in her ears and the white light building behind her lids, and the pleasure, dear Gods the pleasure so sharp and pure it was agony.

She loosened his hair, hands sliding over her rounded belly, her heavier breasts, arching her spine as the agony spiked, her grip on herself falling away along with the last of her wits. Arms outstretched, fisting furs, coming and coming in her lover’s mouth, ripples of release like infinite circles spreading out from a rock tossed in a pool, her wailing as real as the storm of sensation. If this was a dream, she never wanted to wake.

A wet kiss against her stomach, right where her navel strained against the bulge of the ghost child inside her womb. ‘Turn over and get on your knees,’ he said insistently. ‘I need to be in you now.’

‘I don’t like it like that,’ she murmured, petting his rumpled head as he nuzzled at her, a faint pang of dark, distant memory wafting through her empty head. The stranger’s hair was beautiful, thick and curly and indulgent. How she wanted to see it properly along with the rest of him, but it seemed she could only glimpse what the dream allowed.

‘You like it with me,’ he said in a guttural growl. ‘You like it very much. Come, let me show you how.’

She knew somehow this visitation wasn’t meant to hurt her, but to give her something, a future she would likely never know, but precious nonetheless. And she wanted him, wanted to fill that emptiness inside her, to reassure herself he was whole and human, and she was the same to him.

The care he showed her banished the ill memory, pillows arranged like a nest to hold her swollen body, his roaming touch warming her though the winter air still nipped and clawed, her arse lifted with possessive hands, the rasp of his voice. ‘Good lass…beautiful queen…Gods, look at you…all _mine_ …’

At the last words of ownership, he entered her in one thrust, burrowing past taut muscle, gliding up to her full womb, the angle and inward pressure so exquisite she took several gulps of air, smothered by the mess of her hair, his sleek muscled form against her back, the drag of the dream she swam through, now resisting her every move and thought.

She was losing it, losing her sense of him, her surroundings dissolving, and she whined in protest as it faded by inches. The canopied bed, the kiss of cold, the furs cocooning her, the vibration of the sea moving through secret channels and fissures, but she still felt him in her bones, every harsh movement in her cunt rending her apart, every ragged fingernail that sank into her buttocks, the heave of his breath, the satisfied sounds as she became slicker and hotter and churned around his cock.

She sobbed in anguish at the pleasure that expanded in her loins, every pull on her inner muscles, the thick head knocking against her limit. A hand cupped her belly tenderly, feeling the child kick and flutter, then two fingers caught at her nub, smoothing back and forth around it in a move so subtle and perfect it could only come from intimate knowledge of her body.

Something twisted inside her, an unknown urge yammered and nagged, to bow her head and submit completely, to urge him to make it hurt as well as feel so shatteringly good. If only she could stay with him in this twilight world, urge him to bend her, smack her, bite her, take her in every entrance, but she knew as soon as he spilled inside her, he would disappear, and her emptiness would return.

She fought it as fiercely as any enemy she had vanquished, trying to hold back from her cunt seizing up around him to absorb every drop, crying out ‘No, oh no…please no…’ in desperation. But it was as fruitless as pleading with a storm not to break. He knew her name, speaking it in a hoarse prayer as she felt her body draw into a defensive crouch, feeling it come and losing the battle.

‘Daenerys.’

Then he was holding her imprisoned between powerful hands, tilted to receive him in hammering blows, bruising her deep and kicking it off, her treacherous climax flowing out from her tightening cunt, under her skin, through the marrow of her bones, screaming and weeping with the strength of it. Oh _yes_ , ropes of seed spurting inside her, spilling from her, the scent of it like rich earth after rain then _no_ , gone, all gone, faded to nothing but an expiration of air, as unsubstantial as mist.

‘You will want me, when you see me. You will _know_.’

It was a true awakening, the golden stone chamber dimly lit by the city below, the sheets and quilt tangled around her body, sweat trickling between her breasts and down her flat belly. She was hunched on her front, the hand between her thighs wet with nothing but her own essence, but she felt the reverberations of the orgasm sparking through her nerves, an ache in her loins as if she had been well served.

She rolled on her side, gasping like a drowning soul fished out to lie on the sand, finding the bed empty but for herself, the receding dream like smoke from a dying fire. She settled, trying to return, centre herself in what had woken her in such a wanton state. She threw her mind into the purple void that had held her imprisoned, scrabbling for pictures, textures, sounds, touches both rough and gentle.

But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was snow.  Drifting snow in a bare-boughed glade, piling on the frozen ground. Snow blowing against a windowpane, sticking to the mullioned glass in delicate patterns. Grey granite battlements glimpsed through a blizzard. The kiss of cold tears on her cheeks as she walked among a cavernous building split asunder, walked towards her goal, then turned away to find _him_.

She tried again to recapture it on many nights at sea, feeling the echo of need still in her consciousness, but the spell only granted her the same cold, cryptic cruelty, until the echo spluttered and died under the twin burdens of duty and expectation.

She was alone, she would always be alone. She did not need it, what the dream had shown her.


	2. Dragonstone

_A/N: Thank you all for your enthusiasm for the first half of this. I had no plans to extend it, but last week I heard a lovely reader of mine, **allegre** or **allegre17** on Tumblr, suffered an accident and is in a very serious condition. I have written this in the hope she will get to read it when she wakes up and is in recovery, as she said this was her favourite bit of my writing. I don’t really pray, so this is what I can do instead. I hope it fits with the first half, enjoy. It’s for allegre, but if you like it, then that’s good too. _

One of the Graces from the healing temple in Mereen had told her once that out of all the five senses that man possessed, scent was the one that lingered the longest in memory. Scent could yank one’s consciousness back to the time and place where one first smelled bread baking in a clay oven, delicate lemon blossoms blown in a sea breeze, the grass of the Dothraki sea trampled under foot and hoof, and the musky, complex scent of a lover’s bare skin.

It was the scent of him that brought it back, the dream she had been chasing through the dark passages of her mind for weeks at sea. Old leather, pine needles, the sharp sting of cold in her nostrils, a hint of warm, unyielding muscle beneath layers and layers of bulky clothes. Once he had stepped close enough to her, his liquid brown eyes a little lost, more than a little transfixed, and it began, a tickle down her spine, a flash of awareness that made her pause.

Not much came to her at first, just hands thick with scars and callouses from hard work and fighting drifting across her curves, raven curls unbound across her breasts, a voice in the dark, low and husky and seductive, despite the awkward prickliness of the man who stalked around her island, preoccupied and distant and hard to know. Handsome yes, but so restrained and wary that it seemed improbable that the dream lover and her visitor were one.

The beauty and sadness of his eyes, changeable due to light and mood, ever seeking her out whenever she could not help herself looking, prevented her from dismissing the connection entirely. It was a distraction she didn’t need, a compulsion she couldn’t stop, she tried to banish the tickle with clipped, businesslike discourse at council, stumbling to find common ground with this stubborn, terse Northern king, the soft, weak part of herself incessantly wondering _are you him, the one who will give me peace, the future I thought I would never have?_

That afternoon, she ran from it, hoping that the pull of the dream and its increasingly vivid snatches would leave her be. She walked the cliffs in a howling wind that tugged at her clothes and ached in her ears. She took the serpentine steps to the beach and brooded over the towering waves that sucked at and crashed against the golden strand. She watched her children wheeling in the iron-grey sky, snarling and snatching in play, birthed from stone, fire and sorcery, not her fallow womb.

She didn’t see Jon Snow, she didn’t think of him, her will was strong, it had to be for her to survive the threats and temptations of men both pure at heart, or with blackened, stunted souls. There was a door to the passages of her mind where he lurked, she kept it locked with a key of Valyrian steel, but as a lonely, starless twilight fell over the restless sea and she turned for home, she began to weaken. He was one of the rare ones she knew, pure and noble, but still she did not _need_ him, she did not need the weakness of a woman’s hope.

She dragged herself up the steps, ignored all calls for her attention, and retired to her chambers, stripping her queenly armour and donning a robe to pay a visit to the bathhouse to soak her weary bones. The tiredness of her body, the burning embrace of the water as she slipped in, she could not keep that door locked as her eyes fluttered closed and she dozed, buoyant and free in the darkness of the only space where she felt at home.  

It was the same bed, which she now recognised as her great bed of state, the same silky grey and black pelts smothering her naked form, heavy with languor, aching and sticky between her thighs, the pulse of the ocean beneath the castle the same as the pulse within her core. At first, she was alone, but when her arm flailed across the sheets she found him, lying curled on his side, her hand skimming across a ribbed stomach and hard chest puckered with strange markings.

When she fought with her lids to open them, she didn’t notice the marks, only his face, slightly flushed, black hair that was always tightly restrained now loose and wild, half circles of eyelashes fanning open to reveal eyes that smouldered like embers. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘It can’t be you. You’re so… _closed_.’

‘Aye love, and so are you,’ he rumbled. ‘And yet I dream of you. I’m likely in my chamber dreaming of this right now, hard and wanting, waking up to take myself in hand again. You have no true idea what you do to me, but soon you will know.’

‘You dream of me?’ she said with suspicion, thinking of that careful, guarded face, only the eloquent eyes giving her a taste of what lay beneath.

‘Dragon dreams, wolf dreams, they’re one and the same,’ he replied, his voice a rough caress. ‘Dreaming of you made me believe I’m still alive, breathing air and walking the earth, and all my parts work as they should.’

She snorted and rolled on her side, the edges of the scene were still hazy and indistinct, but it was definitely him, no matter that she hunted for words to deny it, arguing with her own strange consciousness, her voice dragging and lazy, echoing in her head. ‘Forgive me Jon Snow, but you don’t look like a man who would dare to take my hand, let alone pleasure me so well I have been trying to get back here for weeks.’

She had rarely seen him smile in reality, let alone laugh, but he chuckled now, a deep, easy sound that made her mouth twitch.  ‘Look at yourself.’ A hand drifted to her throat, pushing a sheaf of hair out of the way. ‘My mark is on your skin.’ The hand moved lower, cupping a breast. ‘Your nipples are as red as cherries.’ Lower still, palming her flat stomach, then a featherlight touch over her nether lips. ‘My seed is dripping from your pretty bare slit, and you ache inside since I used you so hard.’

Her whole body flooded with heat and tingling nerves at the blatant words, the familiar possession of his hand, his inky eyes drinking her in, naked and vulnerable. She licked her lips, her reply drawn from a hidden well of need, tears prickling despite her desire. ‘There is no babe in my belly.’

‘There _will_ be, my love,’ he said gently. ‘I will give you as many babes as you wish, when all our battles are won.’

‘Show me then,’ she whispered fiercely, swallowing a sob. ‘Prove it to me, because I don’t want to wake up weeping for what will never be and resenting you for it.’ Nobody knew her like this, she made sure of it, but in this space between worlds she felt as stripped bare as her body. It was safe, he made her feel safe, the logical part of her subdued by the spell of his voice, his presence, the grasp of his hands as he brought her under him.

He was so _real_ , a weight of muscle and bone and a stirring, heavy cock against the fork of her thighs, lips plump and soft, giving way to the greedy demand of her mouth, a tongue sliding to flicker and delve, crow black hair mingling with her bright silver. This time her hands went as they willed, exploring a back corded with strength, buttocks sweetly curved, skin cool to the touch in contrast to the fire that spat and kindled within her.

Her legs were edged further apart by the heft of him, small gasps and murmurs trapped in his throat as he kissed her, as if he was unaccustomed to being touched with reverence. She wanted to gently fist that cock that nudged at her mound, explore its shape and length, scoot down beneath the furs and take him deep in her throat to see how he would respond to being served, to make him come apart at his rough-hewn seams.

His hand found her first, stirring within where their juices were mingled, long fingers catching at her nub then probing inside where she was sore. She welcomed the invasion, throwing her head back to expose her throat, another subduing bite like a wolf who had run her down in an icy wood and sunk his teeth to finish her. She remembered then, his mouth on her cunt, making her tremble and twitch, flex like a cat being stroked and cry out into the void.

Though she was a mess, she wanted him there, and then he was, pushing off the furs, palming and pinning her thighs, lapping up the wetness that slipped from her like nectar, his lips and tongue soothing where she was raw and bruised. Her hands clutched at his hair, the sheets, her own breasts as she writhed and mewled, dizzying swirls of light and dark behind her eyelids.

She fought to keep them open in case he disappeared, then struggled in his grasp, begging to be taken, to feel the solid girth of his cock sliding past her walls. She was unrecognisable to herself, a wanton, desperate creature, but he knew her, it was written on his face as he slid up her body and opened her to him with one perfect thrust, knocking the air from her lungs and catching it in his mouth. No time to absorb it and melt into the pleasure, her leg was hooked and pushed backwards over her torso, splitting her wider, a helpless groan at the tight sheath of her cunt holding him against her womb.

He withdrew and thrust home again and again, fixed on plundering her until she was an empty husk to blow away in the lightest of draughts.  Her nails sank into the muscles of his powerful arms, her hips lifting off the bed to receive each blow, so good, so shatteringly good she did not know how to handle such bittersweet pleasure, did not know how to resist the terrible beauty of his eyes looking down at her with love and lust and a black thread of mastery that she relished more than she should.

It was less of a dream, more of a seeing, what could happen if she woke, drew on her robe and stalked the corridors of the castle until she found his chamber, and slipped through the door to find him naked in bed, working his satisfying length in a battered hand, the milk and moonlight of his bare skin as he reared back in an arch and called the queen’s name, only to summon her.

She cursed her wandering thoughts, trying to fix herself in the safety of the here and now, where she could be free and abandoned, the slick sounds of her cunt receiving his cock easily, a fiery ache in the cradle of her hips where he hit her limit, her body twisted as he bent over her to steal a fevered kiss. She sunk her nails in deeper to anchor herself, nipped at his lips, keened at a series of vicious movements. As soon as the mass of pressure in her belly broke into splinters he would slip through her hands and would be gone, and the grief and frustration of it escaped in a vixen’s snarl.

She bucked under him, locking her thighs around his narrow hips, grabbed his shoulders and hissed. ‘Now let me show _you_.’ With all her strength, she flipped him over, snatching at his hands and holding them against the pillows, his surprised grunt and widening dusky eyes making her smile in triumph, her hips rolling to settle his cock back where it belonged, filling every inch of her. She was a rider, she was a fighter, she would not let him go until she’d had her fill.

She dangled her small breasts over his lips, feeding them to him, sighing at the scrape of teeth and whiskers as he pulled and suckled. She rocked and twisted, dictating his pleasure, the sensation of his cock pressing against a hidden spot making her whine in distress, but it was too addictive to resist. She knew she was dancing dangerously close to the abyss, but she was now lost to it, freeing his hands so he could sink them into her arse, so she could touch him, yank his hair, use his shoulders to balance as she rode it out to the bitter end.

‘That’s it my queen,’ he purred at her. ‘Come for me, look at me as you come love, I’m not going anywhere.’

As she cracked into a thousand pieces, the implosion burning through to her fingers and toes, her eyes flew open and she saw him, his eyes twin pools to drown in, his mouth hanging open, a feral growl escaping, black and white, hot and cold, a twitch and spill of seed, her name whispered like a prayer before she fell into a bottomless dark pit like the womb of the earth.

She fell and fell, flashes of light, abstract forms, confused places and faces until she jerked awake with a splash, slipping off the edge of the step and submerging in the centre of the hot spring, alone in the black aside from a single torch that had not yet burned out. She was gasping, every pore of her skin flickering with the aftermath, her fingers slick as she brought a shaking hand to her face.

There were no tears, there were no frantic fumblings in search of the dream that spat her out so abruptly. Instead, a calm thoughtfulness descended upon her as she swam back to the edge of the pool and clambered out, feeling giddy and boneless from the long soaking and disorientation, but her mind clear. She dried herself carefully with a wide linen sheet, slathered cream on her limbs from her precious jar of spiceflower and almond, and slipped her red robe around her shoulders, tying the sash in a loose knot.

From the distant past, her own voice floated out of the ether as she opened the door and stepped into the chilly, empty hallway and began to walk. She listened to that voice, and followed it, not turning right when she reached the junction to find her own chamber, but left, her bare feet as quiet as a mouse on the polished tiles, but her heart as brave and bold as a dragon.

Life was short, brutal, and hard. Time was precious, especially time that could be spared from duty and drudgery. She was not afraid, especially not of him. They knew each other in their dreams, and she needed to know if it was the same in the here and now.

_I am no ordinary woman, my dreams come true._

 


	3. Castle Black

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_A/N: Hello readers, my creaky old laptop decided to live again. If you remember this little fic from a while back, I decided to extend it and write two parts from Jon’s POV. I always find him harder to write than Daenerys but people seem to like it when I make the effort. This is a mirror to the first two parts in that it starts back in Season 6. Enjoy the angst and dream smut. Beautiful, evocative but annoyingly censored for Dumblr moodboard provided by **Justwanderingneverlost**. _

 

The pitiless wind shrieked and mourned as it swept from the north and hit the seven-hundred foot barrier that blocked its path, spiraling up in tricky buffets and slaps that whipped at his cloak and stung his cheeks. The same wind he always felt as he walked his watch, but its bite deeper and crueler, thrumming in his bones as a warning. He hunched his shoulders and ignored its kiss, the only kiss he was likely to ever feel, the kiss of death. He kept walking aimlessly, past the trebuchets and scorpions, the broken barrels, the stores of arrows, the detritus of a great battle he had helmed, his prison abandoned and unmanned.

He was dead, and then not. The horror still lingered at what he was, no different from those that were assembling to swarm over the kingdoms and devour them whole,  though his booted feet crunched through the crust of newly formed ice, his battered heart thumped steadily, his stomach griped in protest at an entire day without food, his thoughts squirmed and surged, confused and human. He’d woken this morning in a cold sweat, his member hard for the first time since the Red Woman had brought him gasping back to life, another reminder that he wasn’t one of _them_ despite his fears, those that shambled and growled their way towards where he watched, the great mass of the dead.

He had no recollection of why he had woken hard and needing, when he reached in his mind it slipped away from him like a shadow under the glow of the moon. It rode high in the night sky tonight, drinking the light from the myriad stars and bathing the snowy wasteland and the fringe of the Haunted Forest so he could see his wolf clearly, nose down and in search of an interesting scent, though he was nearly a league from the gate. Nothing else moved below, it was sterile and empty, though something lived out there for Ghost to hunt down.

He had walked west, a pointless journey he was wont to do when he couldn’t sleep, nothing to see and no one to greet him, which he preferred. He avoided folk as much as he could, hating their awed stares, their careful words and thumps on the back. He hated how they forgot and called him Lord Commander, and looked to him for guidance. He wanted no part of it, he wanted to abandon his watch at last and seek warmth and distraction, take this unearthly gift he had been given and live his second life far from the dread reason he had been brought back. But selfishness wasn't in him despite the temptation, so he lingered, waiting for his purpose to emerge.

He turned back east after the path beneath his boots became uneven and slippery, the men unable to grit the wall walks this far away from the castle. There wasn’t enough of them, there never had been. If he stayed here to await the enemy they wouldn’t hold, his vigil was pointless, the Gods were silent, his dreams told him nothing except confused terror and grief and whatever it was that had woken him this morn as hard as iron and throbbing painfully. He had ignored it, not taking himself in hand, though a mischievous voice floated into his ears. ‘If you don’t use it, that pretty cock of yours will drop off,’ the dead girl said, the only girl he’d ever love.

He wanted no other, though his body thought different. Whatever he had dreamed of, it hadn’t been her. He frowned, tilting his face to the moon, memory stirring at the bright silver. He hadn’t dreamed of red-gold hair, the colour he associated with the few women he’d had any dealings with. His gloved hands curled into fists as he chased the memory down, tresses in his hands, as white as winter. He knew of no woman with hair like that, like the soppy wedding ballad his sister liked to sing back at Winterfell. Long ago and far away, when his shattered family had time to sing and squabble and play while he sat in a corner and watched, part of it all but not, the cuckoo in the nest.

He shook himself angrily and continued on to the cage to descend, find a bite of bread and meat, a big tankard of sour ale and retreat to his bed. He needed to try and sleep, act like a normal man, not a restless spectre. He went to the dining hall and shoved food in his mouth without savouring it, listened to men laugh and jest without smiling or speaking, avoided the worried eyes of Ser Davos, the intent, proprietary gaze of the witch. Two tankards of ale to help him sleep and he was gone, slipping out a side door unnoticed but likely talked about once he was gone, with concern and unease. He didn’t know how to act like his old self to soothe people, and he didn’t want to. That boy was gone.

Someone was looking after him even if he was not looking after himself. His old chamber was warmed by a crackling fire, new clothes were laid out as he had ordered so he could shed his blacks for good, his narrow bed made up with new linen and extra furs. He disarmed, shed his hated clothes and tossed them into a corner, and climbed into bed in his roughspun shirt and nothing else, finding a hot brick to warm his chilled toes. There were no women at Castle Black aside from Melisandre, but Davos fussed over him like a fond old uncle he’d never had. He wouldn’t let him sink into apathy and neglect himself and his duty.

The thought warmed him even as he felt vexed at the man’s persistence, and sleep brushed at him like the touch of a small, gentle hand on his face, a tunnel of darkness beckoning him forth. His eyelids fluttered as he fought it, afraid of what he would find at the end, another hideous nightmare of blood and rotting bones and shrieks and the ring of ice on Valyrian steel, his final end, or perhaps the elusive dream of the moon. What he wanted was oblivion, to wake in the morning rested and remembering nothing.

He woke with a heave of air, his body in repose tensing, a longbow being notched with an arrow. His eyes flew open but he saw nothing, the room was dark but for the glow of the banked fire, its rough stone walls and smoke grimed beams invisible. The bed that held him felt wider, the sheets less scratchy beneath his clutching hands. The body between the fork of his thighs was hot as flame, as soft as butter. He cautiously reached out and caught a sheaf of hair that slipped through his hand like a bolt of fine silk.

He heard a soft, throaty laugh, teeth nipping at him teasingly, right at the crease of his groin. His cock was standing proud, not fussy at all about the strange woman in his bed, some sorceress come to disturb his rest, sink her claws and drain the life out of him like a tale from the seven hells.  He struggled beneath her small weight, then groaned as her tongue licked a trail from groin to hip, hair slipping down to tickle his balls,  hands curling around his length to squeeze lightly. The tongue trailed back down, flicking at the head of him in a lazy circle. He’d never had a woman touch him like that before, with such delicate skill, and suddenly didn’t care if it was a visitation from hell, he wanted to see where his mind would take him.

‘You have the most beautiful cock,’ a voice purred. ‘It fits me so well, it’s no wonder I never want to leave your bed.’

‘What are you doing in my bed?’ he mumbled, his hand still carding through her hair, which he knew was silver, if he knew nothing else. ‘Are you some whore from Molestown someone has left for me?’

He heard the laugh again, the tongue not letting off the circling of him, her hands moving in a slow caress that made him arch off the bed and curse. ‘I am no whore, I am your wife, though I play the whore for you, I will roast any man that calls me such.’

‘No woman would marry a bastard with no home and no fortune,’ he breathed, squirming as she cupped him and rolled his balls in her hot palm, lips descending to suck at his tip, then more of him, nearly all of him. Gods, she felt so real he was arguing with her, this visitation, was feeling the pleasure of her mouth on his cock in every pore. He let go her hair and tried to flip back the covers to see her, but his hands were weak, his eyes still hazy. He could only feel her and hear her, moaning helplessly as she popped him free from her warm, deep throat.

‘I am yours, and you are mine,’ she whispered into his belly, her palms holding his hips, holding him trapped. He caught a waft of scent, spicey, flowery perfume and the tang of her cunt. Suddenly he wanted to bury his face in her folds and sip from her like a bee in a pink, open bloom. She would taste good, so good, his mouth filled with saliva at the need for it. ‘We said the words, you bound yourself to me, it will happen sooner than you think. You belong to _me_ , you need me and I need you. Fight and live to find me.’

More words of denial and query swelled in his chest and lodged in his throat, he was torn in two, between mindless pleasure and knowledge, his hands fluttering in indecision, but animal instinct took over, the need to grab and take and taste. Strength returned to him in a rush of blood even as she unmanned him by taking his cock in her throat again, reaching under the covers and hooking her small body up and around, a sense of supple curves tinted gold by the sun, dusky nipples, a veil of bright hair and then oh, her bottom filling his palms, her bare cunt split like a peach, her thighs quivering as he let go all thought, prised her open and lapped at her hungrily.

She had let him slide free of her mouth so her cry of shock was wild and loud, her back arching, the covers gone and her lovely body on full display should he care to look, but he was too focused on the nectar that dripped into his mouth, the blushing, gleaming folds of her luring him into devour, making her twitch and protest like a maiden. She silenced herself by taking him down, her lips stretched around his girth, kissing the base of his cock as she expertly swallowed him whole. Oh Gods, the taste of her, what she was doing to him, the merging of his white marred flesh with her golden, perfect skin.

He lost all sense of reality, there was only pure pleasure, his hips driving off the bed to fuck her attentive mouth, his bristly lips closing around her nub to apply suction, his rough fingers exploring the taut depths of her cunt. He didn’t recognise himself, this practiced lover that gave and took, that invaded her like he knew her and owned her, his mind swirling with the possibilities of how best to end it, on her knees with her arse in the air, on her back with her feet flat against the headboard, completely open to his harsh thrusts, astride his hips riding him like a warrior queen. He wanted to see her face and know her as she broke into pieces, he didn’t want to wait for a future that might never happen.

As if the sorceress had caught his stream of thought, she slithered out of his hands like quicksilver, not to disappear in a puff of brimstone and smoke but out of his reach, her back to him, distant and unknowable, squatting with her tempting arse in his view. He could only grab her hips and guide her down onto his jutting cock, his body drained of strength, no words in him to beg to see her and hold her, hold onto the dream and swim in it forever, never waking.

As she took him in her body, keening as he pulled her apart and settled against her womb, her cunt squeezing him tight and making his balls feel painfully full and heavy, he knew she would be gone as soon as that heaviness erupted into her, soon, too soon. Her moonglow hair he reached for like a lifeline, imprisoning it in his fist to hold onto her, groaning and grunting like a beast as she lifted and fell, lifted and fell, bent forward so he could see everything he was allowed to, her splayed petals around his slippery cock, her bottom jiggling sweetly, her noises savage and untamed, her grip on his thighs like iron.

She threw her head back and howled at the moon floating high above the bed, the castle, the wall of ice, her cunt rippling around him in tune with his thudding heart, and she drew it out of him like a succubus draining him of all his power, his body lifting off the bed as his cock emptied into her in fluid pulses, so blissful it was unlike anything he’d ever felt, every nerve firing within and without, the kind of pleasure that men would fight and kill for, and live for.

In the storm that broke in his mind with the release, his eyes closed and he sunk into blackness, a void of nothing, like being dead, but it was the kind of death that was warm and comforting, like floating in the embrace of a hot spring in a womb of the earth, waiting to be reborn into the world outside. He drifted for an age, not fearing it, not hearing the whispers of the Gods that left him in limbo, not feeling the seven blows into his chest and belly that had sent him into nothing, only the tingle in his belly and bones of a man well served and sated, the pricking of curiosity over what it all meant.

The moonglow maid, not a maid but a woman, with hair as white as winter, but the heat of summer in her fiery core.


	4. Dragonstone

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_A/N: Hello and thank you for all the kudos and especially to those of you that commented on Sad Jon. This will probably be my last update before Xmas. For those of you that had a shit year, I hope my shameless, kind of romantic smut cheered you up when you needed it. Above is the A Dance With Dragons book cover art by Marc Fishman that inspired me to continue this fic. We are moving from the Wall to Dragonstone now, enjoy and feedback is love. Happy holidays._

  


He didn’t remember at first, the lusty dreams that had plagued him and comforted him. They were buried deep in the recesses of his busy, preoccupied mind, and even when he had ample time to walk the beaches and moors and brood as he was wont to do, penned up on this windswept pile of black rock, as resentful as Ghost in his kennel at Castle Black, he didn’t find them floating in his consciousness. He was too annoyed, too frustrated, too daunted by his polite yet distant captors, too choked with fear over what marched towards the kingdoms, mercifully slow but on feet that never tired.

He was a dutiful man, and duty was what he had left, what drove him on this fruitless mission south. He had no time to dwell on the demands of his spare, functional, battered body, or wistful, heady dreams of a warm, willing, fierce woman to ease his loneliness and give him a new purpose. To not die again, but live, to find joy in the pleasures of the flesh, laughter in the darkness of a bed, a ripe body full of his child, to fly across the chasm of doom that yawed at his boots to the light on the other side, on the wings of a mighty beast.

A queen whose only crown was the glorious, intricate coils of her silver hair, steely eyed and wary, hard-armoured from  years of struggle and self-preservation, with a quick tongue and a quicker brain. Haughty as he had expected, but also humble. He kept his distance and studied her from afar, like the boy he used to be, sitting in a corner and observing, quiet and careful not to attract attention. He studied her not just as a potential foe or friend, but as a woman. A beautiful woman, the most breathtaking he had ever seen, and he did not miss her blue-green eyes sliding to him in turn, quick caresses that warmed his cheeks like he was still a boy in truth.

He liked best to look at Daenerys when she thought herself unobserved, which was a rare event. They were always around, her slippery advisors, the acid-tongued dwarf who was his friend, her hulking guards with their jabbering foreign tongues, but he had seen her laugh more than once, as sweet and earthy as bubbling water in a brook, he had glimpsed her in a soft gown that wrapped around her curves instead of those structured grey coats that obscured her like his own kingly layers obscured him. And then one day, the dreams returned in a rush of firing nerves that coalesced in his sleeping groin.

He was outside the castle, an unusually sunny morning with a teasing wind from the south, warm enough that he had left off his cloak for his stroll before heading down to his men hacking away at the dragonglass cave. The charcoal bulk of the castle loomed over him, and he looked up, studying the whimsical but fearsome carvings of dragons that were sculpted from the rock like lively, living creatures. She was standing on a small balcony high above him, in nothing but a creamy robe, her silver hair loose and so long it reached her hips, tossing in the breeze as she smiled and turned her face to the sun. It was _she_ , the moonglow maid, they were one and the same, and he was truly fucked.

The dreams were too vivid, too tactile to set aside, too shattering now he had met her in life as well as in the void of sleep. He _knew_ her, he knew her fragrant taste, the sounds she made when he was buried inside her, slow and sweet or rutting like an animal, the feel of her delicate yet strong body in his hands. It was impossible to quell his heated thoughts, his cock had no interest in his silent lectures to be still and quiescent, that she wasn’t his to touch and take, she was a stranger and a fearsome one at that.

In the cave, when he had shown her the dread truth etched in the glittering stone, his heart full of pathetic longing as well as the need to make her see, he had seen something in the depths of her eyes, like the glint of a fish surfacing in a pond, acknowledgment, like a small spot on her consciousness had been touched by his stroking fingers, and he had wondered at it, worried at it like an itch. She had distanced herself from him then, stalking off to unleash a fiery hell on her enemies, leaving him alone and still a prisoner, but instead of waking in the morning resentful he woke aroused, taking himself in hand and letting his dreams loose.

Today in the hope of exhausting himself so he would retire to bed and do nothing but sleep, he had worked all afternoon in the cave, then sparred in the castle courtyard with two obliging Dothraki guards he had approached with the help of the Queen’s advisor Missandei. Achy and fatigued, he hastily gobbled a meal in the dining hall, and slipped off to his room to wash in the hot water that was ever available at Dragonstone, bubbling from the earth in cunning conduits, in steaming pools in the grounds, and in the bathhouse which was the queen’s private sanctuary.

He tried not to, but as he got into bed naked he thought of her there, that rounded flesh he was strangely familiar with, flushed and slippery and languid, floating in a pool he longed to dive into to embrace her, to find out whether the reality would be as good as his dreams. His ever reliable cock hardened under the weight of blankets and fine linen sheets, and he cursed it, ignoring the nagging pulse, the heavy length that lay against his slashed stomach.

He tried to think of things that would dull his lust, the angry face of Lady Stark, admonishing the bastard for some minor misdemeanour, his querulous sister nagging at him, her finger wagging as he winced. And even worse, an army of rotting, snarling wights at the gates of Winterfell, but his lust was more powerful. It was bloody aggravating, how he had gone for years denying himself the simple pleasures of a woman, his honour stronger than temptation, and now he wasn’t equal to it.

He wanted her, _Daenerys_ , her name a low purr on his lips as he settled back into the feather pillows and fisted himself slowly, thinking of her climbing from the pool, her wet hair clinging to the curves of her arse, her small breasts tipped pink and proud. He thought of wrapping himself around her and feeling her heat sink into his weary bones, wrapping his lips around a nipple, slipping his fingers into her cunt and burrowing until she mewled. He still knew little about women, but he knew enough to try and serve her well, and his dream self knew more.

He preferred the build up to violently jerking at himself to end it, he liked to wallow in it, these cursed visitations that had him distracted even when he was working, or exchanging careful words with the queen that was ever in his thoughts. He handled himself in long, slow strokes, arching and moaning softly as he imagined her wide mouth around his cock, swallowing him like no woman ever had, then switching to an image of her with her thighs open, pink and welling with nectar, inviting him to eat her up. He didn’t hear it, the soft knock, the fumble of the latch, he only realised there was someone in the chamber when he heard the shuffle of bare feet.

The room was dim, one oil lamp flickering, so when he let go of himself and sat up in a rush, reaching for his dagger that wasn’t there in reflex, she was only a shadow, but then the moon through the window caught a glint of her hair. His breath escaped him like he had been slapped hard, and he did not even worry that he was naked with every ugly scar on full display. His vision was sharpening, she was wrapped in a red silk robe, her hair wet like his imaginings, her eyes dark and lost as she looked at him, frozen in the centre of the rug.

He had no clever words for her, no feigned outrage at his privacy being invaded, at being caught in the act of pleasuring himself. He waited for her to come to him, for he didn’t dare touch her unless she permitted it, though his hands clawed at the covers with the urge to go to her and snatch her up, for what else was she here for but to make his dreams come true? He could see it, in her eyes, in her stance, the confusion and the knowledge, the echo across time and space, reality and fantasy, she knew him too.

She tilted her chin, her lush mouth opening and closing as she tried out words and discarded them, her hands fluttering at the neck of her robe where the valley of her breasts was lined in shadow, thinking of her dignity but discarding that too. ‘I dreamed of you,’ she said at last. ‘I dreamed of you in Mereen, I dreamed of you on the journey. My lover, my partner, the father of my child. When you took me down into the cave that day, I remembered.’ Her eyes looked suddenly shy, then dropped to the rug beneath her dainty toes. ‘It was the scent of you. I had to come here, I had to know...I am sorry, I sound mad, I…’

She picked up the skirts of her robe and turned to go, her name fell from his mouth in a plea. ‘Daenerys...no, please. I dreamed of you too. Don’t leave.’ He was amazed at his boldness, but the thought of her leaving was a pain worse than a dagger in his guts. He didn’t know what to do with it, this magic, this blessing, this bloody great distraction, but he must have her, to touch once, to kiss once, to feel that recognition that it was fate, slipping into his room to confront him, not as a queen but an uncertain maid.

She turned back again, studying him as he had studied her, all his layers gone, just a bastard lad with the truth laid out on his chest, with wild hair and big, pleading eyes like a lost pup, and the hard line of her mouth softened. She took a cautious step, then another, then she was sitting on the edge of the bed, the heat she was throwing out as hot as dragon breath, so lovely, so startling. Her hand reached out and rested on the crescent mark over his heart, her eyes full of sorrow, but he caught it and held it, feeling the jolt of energy that passed from her to him. ‘I am not the man in our dreams,’ he said, raspy and hoarse. ‘Not yet, but I would like to kiss you, if you’ll let me.’

When he leaned in and took her mouth at her tiny smile of invitation, he was anything but hesitant, all the desire he had carried in him howled to let loose. He sipped at her like a man dying of thirst, cupped her face to hold her still as he flicked his tongue over hers, bit at her lips, swallowed her gasp of surprise and then her bubbling moan. He didn’t need to be a lover with vast experience, her blood called to his, hissing beneath their skins, her robe slipping down as he crushed her against his chest, warm, springy flesh lightly dewed, his trembling hand grasped in hers and brought to her breast.

Under the mussed blankets his cock was at full attention, so full of want it was like to burst, and he knew then if he didn’t make it about her it would be over in moments, three or four thrusts and he would be spilling and shaming himself, it had been too long. He wanted to impress her, he wanted to own her, to make her his entirely so she would take him into her bed every night before war and death and duty tore them asunder.

She was making little, hungered moans as he kissed her, her hands roaming all over him greedily, one slipping down his belly dangerously close to his length. When her hot palm closed around him and she made a happy noise at her discovery he half laughed, half groaned in distress. ‘I’m afraid I am not going to last if you touch me,’ he breathed into her, her eyes opening to meet his, a spark of amusement in the dark pupils. ‘Lie back, your Grace, and let me touch _you_.’

When she was naked and laid out on the stripped back bed in all her glory, her hands entwined in the bars of the headboard to stop herself from fondling him, her face pink and her lips full and rosy, he could not proceed with care and reverence, treat her like the queen she was. He mapped and mouthed, grasped and pinched, growled into the soft rise of her stomach, nipped at the inside of her thighs as he parted them, dragged his bearded face and curls across every inch of her perfect skin.

Her cunt was like an intricate seashell washed up on the strand, dusky and gleaming and bare by some eastern art, a strip of fine silver hair leading him south to her nub, fat as a pearl. He whimpered at the taste of her, so familiar, so delicious, his tongue exploring the shape of her once, enjoying the shuddering gasps that rose and fell from her chest, then he became a greedy savage, sucking her into his mouth, her hairless flesh pulled and plundered and savoured like the rarest of morsels.

He studiously ignored the cramp in his balls, the chafe of the mattress against his ready cock not giving him any relief. He wanted to make her break before he entered her, the reward of her coming in his mouth before he took what was always his. He looked up at her writhing under every flick and suckle, her beautiful body, her heavy lidded gaze and parted lips, the way she grasped the bed and held on, her hair matted ropes of silver and gold in the lamplight. He was so hard he was in agony now, his cock needing her, the dream of her welcoming depths, the kiss of her womb against his tip.

He would make it up to her, tonight and every night if she would permit it, he would learn self control, the language of her body would speak to him like it had when he had most needed to hear it, a walking dead man with no home, no family, only the enemy to keep him going. His fingers eased into her to sharpen her pleasure, and she cried out his name and bowed upwards, the surge felt around his hand, under his lapping tongue. She was like honey and salt and spice, so wet he slurped at her obscenely, so abandoned she was cursing, weeping, keening as she came for him, sucking his fingers deeper, rippling in his mouth, her hands snatching at his hair to bring him closer, riding his face.

At the grind of her against his lips and tongue, her spiraling cries, he couldn’t hold it, rising up in a rush, arranging her shaking legs where he wanted them and sheathing himself, her cunt a tight, resistant  fit to his blade as he impaled her with great force. She bucked under him, eyes bulging then leaking tears, her shock muffled by his kiss of apology, then he knew nothing but the molten heat of her burning through every vein. His hips snapped, grinding and groaning like a soul in torment as she fluttered around him, stretched for him, yielded to absorb all he had to give. No riches, no impressive armies, just himself.

Her heels digging into his spine, her moonlit hair twined around him like a net, hands clinging to his shoulders and her rolling, rearing, inviting it, the violence, the selfish male need to hold her down and fuck her and leave his mark. She was snarling, biting down on his throat as he spilled and collapsed all too soon, her tresses against his face, each gasp of air and jerk of his cock hollowing him out, nothing left but a husk with a mind as blank as fresh parchment, the story of his second life to be written anew.

When he kissed her blindly he tasted tears on her cheeks, her hand cupping the back of his head to bring him down to her breast. Her thighs squeezed him closer in, making sure he was utterly spent before her legs lowered and she rested, her hammering heart under his ear slowing down to a peaceful thud, her hands toying with his hair, curling it around idle fingers. She made a purring sound of pure contentment, answered by his own sleepy rumble. Nothing needed to be said, the dreams had not lied. Kingdoms, alliances, enemies and subjects, plots and threats, none of it mattered. He was hers, and she was his.

 

THE END


End file.
